The Journalist and the Soldier
by Psalm 136
Summary: Mike Evans is a journalist in Iraq. He is captured by Iraqi insurgents and sent to Abu Ghraib, now under the control of AlQaeda. What happens when the particles between worlds spread apart and he finds himself in a world that he knows nothing about? AU
1. Abu Ghraib

_All views in this chapter are mine. Flame me for them if you like. Not all information may be accurate; I've changed certain events to fit the story._

Michael Evans rubbed sun block over his tanned face as he sat in the shadow of one of the armored supply trucks that came to add to the rations that were running low for the soldiers who were stationed just outside of Fallujah, Iraq. He sat with two other men who were at least ten years younger than him, one of them Hispanic and the other African American. He had his handy notebook in front of him, with a ballpoint pen rolling around in his fingers, calloused after many years of dabbling in guitar playing. He lifted a hand and wiped the sweat that was dribbling down his face and into his eyes. Even after being stationed there with the troops for several months, he was still not used to the heat.

"So, David," The journalist addressed the Hispanic who was actually one of the most intelligent people he had ever met. "What is it like, being here in Iraq, away from your family and friends?" It was a question he had asked many times and one he hated asking. He knew exactly what it was like. He missed home so much.

"Its terrible. My wife is going to give birth next week." He spat bitterly, before reconsidering what he had said. "I hate it, but it feels almost worth it. I say almost because nothing is worth missing the birth of your first daughter."

Mike, as he was more commonly known, nodded empathetically. "I know exactly what you mean." He scribbled down something intelligible to everyone except himself. He turned to the black man who was currently taking a long draught of water. "What about you, Adam?"

"I feel the same, except I'm not married. My girlfriend's back in Alabama, and I miss her. She's the most patient woman in the world and she's taking care of my ol' mama while I'm gone." He said in his signature southern drawl. He was originally from Louisiana, and had moved to Alabama to be with his girlfriend, the first girl he had ever loved. "I miss my mama and my older sis and my nephew and nieces, but they're real supportive." He sighed.

Mike continued to scribble down his notes as Adam finished what he was saying. "So, David, how do you feel about the war?"

David shrugged. "I only want to win and help these people back on their feet. I can't see how people are against us fighting those who would destroy democracy. Its like Woodrow Wilson said, back in the day. The world must be made safe for democracy." He said simply.

"I completely agree." Adam nodded. "We don't look back and see World War One or Two as a bad thing because we were fighting evil regimes. We can see now that they were endangering the world, but people can't see now that we're fighting to stop Al-Qaeda from terrorizing the world. People don't get it that we're dying for a worthy cause."

Mike nodded, his hand flying over the page. "So, would you be disappointed if you died now and never got to see the women you love again?" He asked.

"I would feel cheated, but I wouldn't want to turn back time and not come here to fight. I've killed men in battle, and I feel so… but I wouldn't change it. We're fighting for democracy."

"Yeah, I feel the same." Adam took a long drink from his water.

Mike did the same as Adam and placed a period at the end of what could be tentatively described as a sentence, but it was impossible to tell with Mike's unreadable handwriting. He pocketed his pen and put his notebook down on the cooled sand. He checked the time on his watch as another truck pulled up outside the army camp. The journalist stood up as the usual mailman came with his bag of letters for the troops. He started to hand them out amongst the men who were off-duty and catching some sleep in the shade or simply talking with their comrade. The man came up to him with a rather bulky package.

"Thank you." Mike said as he ripped the parcel open. It was three pieces of paper covered with loopy, teenage-girl handwriting and binder with a picture of a girl about five years old on the front. "Hmm… what's this?" He said softly to himself.

Mike tucked the binder under his armpit to examine the letter. He grinned as he started to read it.

_Hey Daddy ,_

_I miss you lots and lots. School is really boring, but I'm doing all my homework like you asked and trying to pull my grade up in math, but Mrs. Smith is so boring. She drones on and on like you wouldn't believe. And Mrs. Rourke isn't any better. She's really strict and her daughter is really snotty, but Mrs. R is a great cook and she can have her good moments, but I miss you. Mom can only take me on the weekends and she's always busy with her new boyfriend, Scott. He's really mean and I don't like him at all. I wish you were back here, Daddy._

_But remember Blake, that boy at my birthday party before you left? He's turned into a real jerk and he asked me out, but I told him no. He then asked me if I would have sex with him but I laughed right in his face and shoved him aside before telling Mr. Taylor, the vice P at school. It was awesome to get my revenge after he called me fat last week._

_The binder that I sent you is my eighth grade portfolio that we had to do for language arts. My writing pieces are my favorite part; we had to write a paper on the war in Iraq and I wrote about you and even included excerpts from some of the articles printed in the newspapers and Time magazine. Yeah, I canceled my subscription to Seventeen to get Time because they usually have something from you all the time._

_I went to the mall with Mom last weekend and I actually went into American Eagle and got some awesome clothes. I can't wait until you get back and I can show you. It was lots of fun; we went and got lunch together and then got our nails done and after, we went to the pool and swam around and splashed each other and stuff._

_I miss you daddy. I keep praying every night that you'll be safe. So stay safe and come back in one piece, okay? I love you._

_Lots of love,_

_Alex_

"Who sent you that?" David asked, having read the letter over Mike's shoulder.

Mike folded the letter up. "My daughter. She's staying with a friend of mine during the week and with her mom for the weekend. She made this," He gestured to the binder he now held in his hand. "For English class." He smiled as he started to flip through it. "She sends me letters every week."

Adam was about to comment when the alarm was sounded and training started to take over. The two soldiers sprinted to their artillery units and Mike tore to the command tent. He had been told to stay there if anything was to happen and his heart was pounding. He was frightened, to be perfectly honest, and he didn't know how the personnel could move about so efficiently and the officers could mill about, giving and taking orders as if it was simply a drill. He was grabbed by a lieutenant to be taken to a safer location as a bomb exploded somewhere outside the tent and Mike was knocked out cold.

His eyes cracked open, but he found it hard to open them for a sticky substance was forcing them closed. His head throbbed, but he could almost function normally, and he was thankful there was only a small chance he had a concussion. He blinked and tried to see where he was in the dim light. He could see less than five feet in front of him and when he tried to move his left arm, he cried out in pain.

"Definitely broken." He muttered.

"Evans?" Someone rasped.

"Its me." He replied.

"Its David, man." The soldier crawled over slowly. "You okay?"

"My arm hurts." Mike said, his voice much higher than it should naturally be. "I think my knee's messed up, but I'll survive." He attempted a small grin.

"That's real courage, man, but we're prisoners of war now." He said gravely. "We got a surprise attack from insurgents and they got you and me. I woke up earlier and it seems our guard is rather talkative and I managed to understand we're in Abu Ghraib and its not longer under American control. It was Saddam's torture center." His voice had a steely quality to it, and Mike knew he was in that place where all soldiers simply survive, no matter their physical pain. They survive and then they have time for physical pain.

"Oh… okay." Mike stuttered. He blinked and lifted his unbroken arm to his face to wipe the substance off. It turned out it was his own dried blood and he had a healing head wound. "So, what do we do?"

"We wait, Mike, we wait." David crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against the wall. "If we're lucky, we'll be rescued, but by the amount of insurgents around this place, we'll be stuck here for a long time."

Mike sat in stunned silence. He could die here. He knew he had been in serious danger before and only for love of his country had he agreed to come to Iraq and cover the war. He could actually die and his daughter would only have her mother and some idiot boyfriend of her mother's. He could leave his daughter fatherless. He licked his lips and swallowed nervously.

"Okay." He said. "Well," He added decisively. "Let's not let this get to our heads. We have to remain productive and always talk. We should talk about our entire lives. Every memory that we have, just to get us started, and then go to sleep. When we wake up, we'll start doing… math or something." He nodded. "Or sleep now."

"Sleep sounds good." David agreed.

Mike, before lying down, pulled off his shirt. He ripped it into shreds as best he could before David leaned over to assist him. The Hispanic then used the shreds to bind the journalist's arm and then use the rest for his ankle. Thanking him, Mike laid down and thought of Alex. He remembered what she had said, about praying for him. His daughter was a Christian and she went to church every Sunday by way of walking to the church. He didn't believe in that sort of thing, but he hoped that if what she believed was true, it would get on and help them. He didn't want to die.

Back in the United States…

Alex Evans sat at her desk in math, doodling idly on her piece of paper as Mrs. Smith instructed them on how to identify a perfect-square trinomial. She sighed and propped her chin up on her hand. She looked out the window, and jumped when one of the office ladies came over the intercom and requested that she go down to the office. Alex silently thanked God and packed up her things, since there was about three minutes until school was let out for the weekend.

"Yeah?" Alex asked as she walked into the office. She was always rather rude to Scott and she couldn't help that it spilled over.

Her mother turned around and quickly pulled her into a hug. "Oh honey!"

"Mom, what's going on? You're scaring me." Alex pulled away. "And where's Scott?" She asked suspiciously. "Don't tell me you're marrying him. He's not going to be my stepdad!" She snapped.

"No, its not Scott. He's in Virginia for two weeks, remember?" Her mother took a deep breath and sighed. "Alex, your dad has been taken prisoner. The American troops were forced out of a prison and insurgents moved in and attacked Fallujah the next day. They took your dad and another soldier." Tears started to fall down her face. She may not have loved Mike anymore, but they were still on good terms.

Alex stared at her mother in disbelief. "NO! Dad has to be okay! He has to!" She shouted as she followed her mother out of the school and to the minivan. "Mom, is Dad going to be okay? They're going to rescue him right?"

"I don't know, sweetie. Let's just go home and make cookies or something."

"Cookies aren't going to solve anything! Dad could be dead and you just want to go home and wait for Scott to get back so you two can go have sex while I'm waiting in my room, waiting for news of Dad! It's my dad we're talking about here! You may not love him but I do!" Alex screamed, before bursting into tears. "I don't want Dad to die."


	2. I Wish We All Could Win

Mike Evans woke up with a groan. He had been having one of those perfect dreams that he never wanted to wake up from. He had envisioned himself in his cozy apartment, on his comfortable burgundy couch in front of the TV with his daughter in his arms. Alex had insisted they watch the foreign channel so she could see the soccer games and he had relented. He wasn't a big Oprah fan anyway. He had leaned against the armrest with Alex leaning against his chest and she was making many humorous comments about the male players. He remembered closing his eyes and thinking how lucky he was. And that was when he had woken up.

"Given my life-long search for irony, you can imagine how excited I am." Mike mumbled under his breath at the thought. He pushed himself into a sitting position on the green concrete floors of Abu Ghraib with his one good arm and leaned against the wall. He heard David stir and yawn. "Good morning." He commented dryly.

"Now, Michael, aren't we Mr. the-glass-is-half-full?" David returned sarcastically. The soldier got to his knees and looked around, though he was careful not to make too much noise. He heard a commotion not too far off and his eyes widened. He moved quickly beside Mike and motioned for the journalist to be quiet.

Mike furrowed his eyebrows in confusion. He hadn't heard anything, but the sound grew louder as it came closer. He froze when two men walked past their cell, each man holding an American's arm, and dragging the victim past. Blood marked their path and Mike craned his neck to see what ailed the soldier. The man's face and chest were bleeding from wounds that had possibly occurred from a beating. Bile rose in Mike's throat as the overpowering smell of blood affronted his nose. The breaths he was taking became few and far between as his lungs seemed to shrink in size.

"You alright?" David whispered, afraid to speak any louder.

"Yeah, I'm fine. Just a small asthma attack." He waved it off. He had had asthma since he could remember and it was no problem.

"Okay." The Hispanic nodded. He stood up and walked over to the cell door where a lazy guard was sitting. "English?" He asked. "Espanol?"

"English." The guard scowled. "What do you what?"

"Paper?" David requested and jumped back when the guard waved his large gun.. "Okay, okay." He sat back down and sighed.

Both men drifted away from the prison into their own thoughts. Mike thought of Alex and her last letter. He wasn't jealous of his ex-wife's new boyfriend and the fact he didn't have a girlfriend. He was completely fine with it. It was the fact that Alex described him as 'mean'. Truth be told, Mike was a bit of a wimp at times, but he would not stand for his daughter to be in the company of a man who belittled her or made her feel unsafe. He burned with anger at the thought she could be talking to another man in the same way she talked to him. After losing his wife to the lull of being single and then finding out she was pregnant, he would cling to whatever he had left of his previous life. He had been in the construction business, always a writer on the side. After the divorce, he gave up building and got into journalism. He was very proud of the fact he made more money than any other man his ex-wife had dated in the last fourteen years. It was an ego-stroke, simply put, but it did him well.

The door to the cell clanged open and an intimidating-looking Iraqi stood above them. He could have easily been seven feet tall and he held a metal bar in his hand. His dark eyes glinted with sick excitement and if he had had any, it would have made Mike lose his breakfast. The journalist gulped, his heart thudding wildly in fear and it wouldn't have been half as bad if the monster of a man had been coming towards him.

David got to his feet just in time to dodge the first blow, but he was still exhausted and he had shrapnel from the bomb explosion in his left knee. He stumbled, merely for a moment, and the bar came crashing onto his head. Blood starting to pour down the right side of David's face and Mike cried out. He threw up at the sight and pushed himself away from the monstrous man. He wished he was anywhere, anywhere at all, and cried out to God for the first time, but no one answered and the last thing he remembered was a big metal bar coming towards his face.

0000

Mike's vision was blurry when he opened his eyes. He attempted to reach a hand up to his face, but his elbows were flaming with pain and his arm was still broken and it felt as it the entire bone was in pieces. His head swam from the overwhelming pain and he wished for the sweet darkness of unconsciousness to return to him, but he somehow stayed conscious. He heard a groan not far from him and he sat up. He cried out and laid back down quickly, only to find that his back was throbbing with pain.

"I miss those days when I had ribs!" He groaned, trying to breathe as little as possible. The overwhelming stench of blood assaulted his nostrils again and his lungs started to close in again. He focused on breathing and did the calming exercises he had been taught as a young child whenever he would have asthma attacks from playing too much soccer or running too hard in track.

"Michael, you… alive?" David groaned.

"If I were dead, I don't think I would be in so much pain." Mike replied, rejoicing inwardly that his friend was still alive and hadn't been killed by that man.

"You'd think so." The Hispanic grinned despite his massive head wound.

"I'm glad you're okay, man." Mike mumbled as another wave of pain attacked him. He slowly moved his arm onto his stomach to observe the damage. There were no open wounds on his stomach, only the one on his head. He was sure his left arm was broken, and his elbows were fractured. A couple of ribs were broken, but he hoped none of them had punctured a lung. His nose was bleeding, but he knew it wasn't totally destroyed. Both eyes were swelling up and he could only see through small slits.

"Yeah." David said. "Here." He weakly rolled over a small loaf of bread.

Mike grasped it in his hand and slowly sat up and leaned his upper back against the wall. That was the only part of him fortunate enough to be unscathed. He blinked, trying to clear his mind of the fogginess of his physical pain. He picked up the bread and bit into it, a sharp pain erupting in his mouth. He spat out two teeth and with it blood. He reached a hand to his mouth and wiped out the blood and tried his best to eat as much of the bread as possible. He remembered some survival techniques he had learned from a captain of the Marines before he had left for Iraq- it was best to eat as much as they gave you when you were a prisoner for you never knew when your next meal would be.

He coughed violently, and he put a hand to his mouth. He squinted at the hand he had covered his mouth with. Blood shimmered on the palm of his hand. He blinked and gulped, spitting out the remnants of the blood from his mouth. Mike relaxed as much as he could without paining himself further. He sighed.

"Hey David?"

"Yeah?"

"You ever think God is real?"

David raised an eyebrow. "Huh?"

"My daughter's a Christian and she's always telling me she prays for me and that she hopes God will bless me and that things are going to be okay because God's in control. Do you ever think that kind of stuff is real?" He rasped, feeling the side of his pants for his glasses. He had terrible eyesight but refused to wear the glasses for his writing, which he did most of the time. He pulled out the wire frames and blew on them before perching them on his nose as peering at David.

"HEY! No talking!" The guard snapped loudly as his supervisor walked by.

It was the giant monster. Mike gave a tiny groan. He was in such pain. Just at the sight of the man made his head throb even more. He closed his eyes and pretended to be dead. He coughed again, feeling flecks of blood land on his lips and chin. The giant monster man grunted and then continued to walk. A newspaper landed on the floor, tossed in by the guard, and David crawled over.

"Haditha." He grunted. "Civilians shot and killed. I can't believe it…" He sighed, lying back down.

"What does Chiarelli have to say?" Mike asked, putting all of this information into his head.

"He says that some individuals choose the wrong path and every soldier will be getting a moral training about when to shoot and when not to shoot and all that." David explained. "And you know about the Iranian leader?"

"Yeah? How he's going to become the next Hitler, with bringing back some of the Nuremberg laws, the yellow star of David and such?" Mike confirmed his knowledge.

"President Bush is trying to get him to give up his nuclear research and sit down to talks."

"God I hope it works." Mike sighed.

David and Mike looked away and lost themselves in their own thoughts. Mike again thought about Alex and how she was doing. He didn't know what he was going to do with himself if he couldn't stop thinking about her. She was ever-present in his thoughts and he hated being away from her. He hated his job but it was necessary. This was a time that no one should ever forget.

"Hey, what's that?" David asked.

"What?" Mike looked around.

"Nah, up in the window." The journalist craned his neck around to see what the big deal was.

There was something shimmering above his head. It was silver in color and it reflected the non-existent light. He squinted, pulling his glasses off to see it better. It looked like there was a rip in the wall and there was something silver behind the rock. Mike reached up to touch it and it was a sort of vacuum. He pulled his hand away quickly, looking down at it, groaning from the pain and effort.

"What the hell?" He asked, watching David slowly crawl over.

David reached up and touched it as well and his hand disappeared and he was suddenly sucked in. Mike's eyes widened and he would have called out, but his throat felt like it was stepped upon. He looked around and heard heavy steps in the distance. He gulped slowly and touched the shimmering silver again. The vacuum caught hold of him this time and he felt himself being thrown forward but he did not feel any pain. He flew through a silver tube before being thrown the opening and his head made contact with a tree and he was unconscious before his body hit the ground.


	3. The Weak's End

Mike groaned as his body landed heavily on the springy grass. He received a face full of mud and grass and the morning dew as his glasses bounced away, innocently unharmed. It was the first time in his life he had ever hated an object. He felt a giant headache coming on, and that was on top of the one he had already been nursing. He lifted a hand to his sticky, bloody chestnut hair and felt for a bump. Oh, that was going to be a nice one. He groaned again and turned onto his back, closing his eyes. To be quite honest, closing his eyes didn't do much. They were practically swollen shut either way.

He heard another groan, one that was becoming familiar. "David? I assume you're alive."

"Quite unfortunate, really." David answered dryly. "I suppose this isn't heaven."

"No, because if it was heaven, we'd be surrounded by beautiful blonde women and we'd be drinking beer. Wait, no, that's you." He gave a weak chuckle. "Its times like these, when you're almost dead, where you wish you were back with your family, eh?" Mike turned his head to wipe off some of the blood with the cool grass. He started to shiver from the drastic temperature change, and huddled closer to David instinctually. Keep his dignity or die by way of painful pneumonia. Oh, life's hard decisions.

David did the same and nodded. "Yep." He looked around as best he could. "So, Mike, tell me about your daughter." It was part of his training; keep your companion awake. He was still a soldier, beaten up or no, and he was determined to get them out of this alive.

"Alex… is great. She's fourteen, in algebra, almost in high school. She loves volleyball and was on varsity this year. I was so proud of her. She also likes shopping and she adores jewelry. Uh… she hates the guy her mom's dating, and I'm about ready to kick that guy's ass." Mike admitted. "Well, Alex is really a good girl, I miss her a lot. Uh, she's about five foot, four inches, she loves pepperoni pizza and neapolitian ice cream…" Mike's voice was lost from shivering. They both were shaking so much that it appeared they were convulsing.

"Hey, Mike, stay with me, man, we gotta get back to Iraq and make sure you get back to that daughter of yours." David forced his body to obey his will, if only for a moment. He surrendered to his body's needs and shivered, getting closer to Mike. It was full noon, and yet both men were shivering as if it was in the middle of the winter.

"So… D-David… tell me 'bout your… w-w-wife." Mike's shivers jarred his broken arm and he rolled over onto his broken ribs. He cried out in pain, moisture clawing at his throat, on the verge of tears. And real men didn't cry!

"She's beautiful and awesome. She's a total brunette bombshell. She's from Ar-arkansas, but she m-m-moved to New York when we got married. And is today Wednesday?" He asked suddenly.

"Y-yeah."

"DAMN IT!" David yelled as best he could in his frightful anger. Mike knew that the man was furiously cursing the Iraqi insurgents as he launched into a string of Spanish words.

"Why?"

"According to the doctors, m-my daughter i-is being b-b-born." He furiously forced out the words.

Michael was almost terrified of David in that moment. He was shivering, yes, but he looked fit to get up and start pacing and swearing viciously in Spanish underneath his breath. He was a powerful man and all of his muscles, when not shuddering in the cold, were tense from the pain of not being there for his wife. Mike would have possibly clapped the man on his shoulder or given some words of comfort when loud neighs in the distance caught their attention.

"What the hell?" The journalist asked aloud, his teeth chattering.

Two men stood over them, their faces bearded and their eyes were filled with concern and mistrust. They started to speak to each other in their own language, one looking rather reluctant for them to even stop and stare at the strangers. Mike blinked, barely conscious. The cold was permeating his mind and lulled him to sleep, but he refused to give in. He didn't want to enter a sleep he might never wake up from. He had to find his way back to Iraq from… wherever they were… and back to Alex.

"H-help us." David's voice was shaking as the cold started to affect him deeply.

They looked confused at the obviously foreign tongue. One of the men, taller and broader than the other, pulled his cloak off and covered David with it, lifting him up with the strength of an ox. The smaller man, obviously a few years the other's junior, did the same to Mike and followed the older man. Mike cried out as pressure was put onto his broken ribs and his broken arm was jostled.

"Mike, where the hell are they taking us? And what language are they speaking?" David asked, his shivers slowly as the man's body warmth sunk into his bones.

"No idea." Mike whispered between his cries of pain. "Ow!" He cried out as the man carrying him gave him to another. His head swam and he barely caught a glimpse of the man who carried him before he was rendered unconscious.

ooo

Michael Evans came back to consciousness hours after that. He was wrapped in warm animal skins and he was in a tent of tan material. It was not yet evening, for he could still see light leaking in through the tent flap. He found he could not move his arm that had been broken, for it was in a splint and tightly bound, but if he moved the other, he found his ribs were bound and he could breathe easily again. He thanked whatever god/being was listening that his lungs hadn't been punctured. His head wound was also bound and there was something smelly and sticky on his tongue. He tried to register the taste and by the sterile taste, he assumed it was medicine. He blinked his swollen eyes. Where the hell am I? He thought.

The man who had first carried him entered the room and Mike took that moment to study him. At heart, Mike was a writer, fascinated by the inner workings of the human mind and heart, and a firm believer in that one could learn a lot about a person by observing them when they didn't know you were looking. This man did not have the look of a soldier as David and Adam and the others did. He looked more like the men Mike had gotten to know through his journalism; a man of the heart and of intellect, rather than of war. The journalist would have drawn more inferences, but the man had noticed that he was awake.

He said something in the strange, other language, and Mike blinked. What was this guy playing at? He assumed it was Russian or something. Maybe this was the Iraqi's new form of torture- placing a prisoner in an unknown location and amongst people who didn't speak the same language, aiming to break them. He shook it off and shook his head in confusion.

"Halbarad." The man said clearly, pointing to himself.

Mike was struck with a feeling. It was the sensation you had heard the name before, from some past source. He blinked, realizing that the man had introduced himself. "Michael." He replied as loudly and clearly as he could manage.

Halbarad, if that was indeed his name, made motions, as if he was eating, and then laid down a plate of something that smelled like meat and then left. Mike slowly eased himself up and looked down at it. Now, he did not assume himself to be a picky eater. He would eat anything, from Thai to sloppy Joes, but that was just insulting his finer tastes. It looked half-cooked, and if he wasn't mistaken, it was fish with the eyeballs still intact. He looked away, but his stomach protested. He hadn't eaten anything save the bread and molding carbohydrates wasn't enough sustenance. He reached for the awkward wooden fork and fought to sever a piece from the rest. When he managed to, he quickly picked it up with his fingers, finding the fork too hard to use, and put it into his mouth. To a man as hungry as he, it wasn't too bad, but it made him wince and swallow quickly. And it left a nasty aftertaste. He did, however, finish about half of it until his stomach was sated.

He was only thankful that he was left alone, in case Halbarad was the cook. Mike didn't want to hurt his feelings, especially after Halbarad had saved his and David's life. Speaking of which, where was the Hispanic? Mike panicked. What if David had died? Unlikely, yes, but it was still possible. He couldn't be left alone in this crazy place!

Mike carefully laid down again, raising a hand to gently massage his swollen eyelids. A fierce headache was raging through his skull. He tried to relax and imagine himself somewhere else as he had in the prison to ease his pain, but as he opened his eyes once more, he again tried to rationalize why he was suddenly in an entirely new world that he had no way of reasoning as to how he came there. Of course, there was the silver tunnel thing, but that did not merit thinking about.

Maybe he was crazy.

That actually made sense.

Funny, Mike thought, if I were crazy, you'd think I wouldn't be in so much pain. His thoughts were wry and dry, and he was reminded of David. At least, if he were crazy, David wouldn't be dead in his mind. Always a plus.

A larger man entered the tent, a small bottle in his hand. Mike took the quick second he had to study this man as well. He walked with power and authority. He looked great, as if he was born to lead, no matter how corny that sounded. Mike saw something in the man's eyes, something sacred and tangible, but it disappeared as the man registered that he was awake.

"Strider." Apparently, Halbarad had informed him on the language block.

"Michael." He introduced himself again.

Strider knelt down by Mike's side and the journalist was a bit confused and fearful, but he sat up obediently, trusting childishly that this man meant him no harm. He had, however, been helped and doctored and fed. Most captors didn't do that to their prisoners. His ribs were unbound and Mike gasped from the pain. Strider looked at him with sympathy and poured a thick substance from the bottle onto his hands, and spread the substance over Mike's ribcage. It was like glue, but it relieved him of pain and seemed to help with his overall state. It was the smell of it. It made his entire being feel lighter. Strider rebound his ribs and checked Mike's head.

Strider pointed to it and then made a face of pain. Mike blinked, and then nodded. Okay, so this sign/body language thing was going pretty well. The stranger did the same to his head wound and then pulled a small vial from his pocket and made a motion that Mike was to drink it. He looked distastefully at it. He had no idea what was in there, but when Strider gave him a stern look, he was quick to obey. He got the silent warning; he didn't want to get this guy mad.

Mike felt relief come onto him as he drank the concoction. He made a decision; these guys weren't that bad. Maybe they could help him. He liked that idea and started to scheme as to how he could get over the language barrier. He had always been good with languages…

ooo

Strider left the injured man's tent as Halbarad was exiting the other one. "How is he?" The Ranger asked as they went to the fire that was in the middle of the Ranger camp.

"In pain and half-conscious." Halbarad reported. "He spoke in two languages when he first woke up. One was the same that My-kul," He pronounced the man's name as best he could. "Had used and the other I was unfamiliar with. I know it was not elvish, at least not the form I am familiar with. Perhaps they are from Harad? Day-veed did have the look of a Haradrim." He suggested.

"I know not." Strider admitted. He was stumped. He had never come upon two men speaking the language they spoke. "Where shall we head?" He changed the subject smoothly.

"The men wish for rest, so shall we brave the Gap of Rohan or head for Bree?" Halbarad, in turn, questioned his chief.

"Nay, I think we should head to a human village near Rivendell. The men can rest there and I can consult Lord Elrond on this matter." Strider decided.

"Do you think it wise, Strider?" Halbarad asked. "They might be spies."

"Indeed, its possible. But we can inquire about them, and Lord Elrond can help us. He has heard of a great many things. We can get a map of Arda and ask them to point out where they dwell." The chief of the Dunedain sighed. "I would not endanger the men if the two were not so injured."

Halbarad nodded. "And what could have injured them, if they were servants of the Enemy and none of our scouts had reported fighting anything strange in such strange garb."

"Indeed."

"So, we head for Rivendell?"

"Yes." Strider confirmed and then took out his pipe and lit it. It was going to be a long night.


	4. Reflection of Something

_In this chapter, I will be attempting some Westron. If I have found wrong words or my interpretation of someone learning such a language is off, feel free to leave a review. Note: I do not have the ability to put accents and such above letters, so forgive me._

Alex hummed a tune underneath her breath as she doodled on her page of notes on the quadratic formula. She cracked open her algebra book for one of the final homework assignments of the year before high school and yawned. She turned to page 509 and began to work. She was having trouble with 'square rooting' as it had become known as amongst her fifth period math class. She used to have a calculator, of course, but then Scott had borrowed it and lost it. She let out a sigh and started on the first problem, writing out the quadratic formula (negative B plus or minus the square root of B squared minus four times AC, over two A) before plugging in the numbers.

Loud footsteps echoed through the hallways as Scott opened the door and stepped in. He was a slight man, standing at a meager 5'8'', with dark hair and blue eyes. He wasn't what Alex would call handsome, but apparently her mother thought he was sexy. She shuddered at the idea. She cleared her throat and took a swig from her Evian bottle before turning her attention back to her homework, intent on ignoring Scott.

"Hi Alex." He greeted.

"Mmhmm." She replied.

"What are you working on?"

"Math."

"Need any help?" Scott inquired.

"No."

"What's wrong?" He almost looked concerned. Almost.

"Piss off."

"You will NOT show disrespect for me, Alexandra Marie Evans-Johnson!" He snapped angrily. He didn't like his new girlfriend's daughter, but the fact she thought she was so great that she would be so rude was over the top.

"Excuse me? My last name is Evans." She said coldly. She hadn't let her mother change her name to include both of her parents' names, because in the case that her mother got married again, she would also carry her stepfather's name. That would never happen. "Just piss off, Scott. I don't want any crap from you."

"Alexandra! I don't want to hear those words from your mouth!" Her mother, Julia, snapped as she walked down the stairs and went up to Scott.

About two seconds before they were about to kiss, Alex shoved Scott aside as she headed for the refrigerator. She smirked as she walked away from them and as her mother started to go off on some rant about how it was HER household and Alex would have to accept anything and everything she did in it. The teenage filled up a mug with orange juice, humming underneath her breath.

"Are you listening to your mother, young lady?" Scott asked, his eyes wide with rage.

"Does it look like it?" She asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Go to your room!" Julia shouted.

Alex sashayed her way back to the table and sat back down, placing her earbuds into her ears and turning her iPod on, her last Christmas gift from her dad before he went off to Iraq. She quickly turned the volume up as both adults in the room started to scream at her. She blocked them out and finished up at least five problems before Scott stormed over and pulled the iPod away from her.

"GIVE IT BACK, FREAK!" Alex screamed, throwing her pen at him.

"I will when you begin to obey us."

"Yeah, because that's going to happen." She retorted sarcastically. "Just give it back and I might." She put her hand on her out-jutting hip and waited expectantly.

"No. Now get to your room, Alexandra Marie." Her mother ordered.

"Mom! Make him give me back my iPod! Its mine! Dad gave it to me and I'll flay his ass before he takes it away!" She shouted.

"No, he will give it back when we think you are obeying us." Julia said.

"We? You mean him." Alex clarified. Her mother didn't budge on the subject and she smirked at Scott. "Bitch."

Scott merely smiled patiently and turned away to put the iPod somewhere Alex could not access and dropped it. The metal backing cracked audibly as it smashed into the ground. The teenager gasped, turning around and running to her room. She slammed the door shut and fell onto her bed in tears. She looked at her journal that was lying open and picked up a pen.

_Hey Daddy,_

_Scott dropped my iPod today and broke it. He yelled at me, saying I shouldn't disrespect him and then a whole fight ensued. Mom took his side! I can't believe it! She's been really crummy lately, ever since she started dating Scott. I hate him. I physically hate him. And now I'm all crying because he destroyed my Christmas present from you. I wish you'd come back. You're in danger and life sucks without you. I mean, you were always there. You were the one that helped me with my homework and who stayed up late with me so we could watch a game and who let me go to church. Its hard to sneak out of the house on Sundays to get to church and one time, Scott caught me and started to yell at me. I hate him. He seems to think that its his house and that Mom's going to marry him so I might as well get used to him being under control. Yeah, because that's going to happen. Yeah, whatever._

_A §_

ooo

Mike woke out of a refreshing sleep to his pain. It overwhelmed him and threatened to send him into unconsciousness. All of his wounds were bound tightly and the pain level was significantly lowered, but the sleep had been nice. He didn't remember the last time he had slept so soundly and without dreams. He yawned, and then winced. He had aggravated an open wound on his jaw. He wasn't looking forward to the next few weeks; he was the worst patient in the world.

"Strider." He rasped, surprised at the lack of moisture in his throat and mouth.

"Nin." Strider identified 'water' with a word in what was probably in his own language and held a sort of water bottle, but made of skin with a wooden stopper. He put the skin to Mike's lips and then tipped it, sending fresh water cascading into Mike's mouth.

The journalist drank as much as he could, enjoying the sensation of moisture falling down his sore throat and into his stomach. He leaned his head back onto a pillow of sorts and let out a small sigh. His ribs still ached, but he was relieved to know he'd recover. He couldn't wait to find a way out of this place. He looked around, still very uncomfortable with his surroundings.

"My-kul." Strider called to him, and Mike looked up and saw the scruffy man holding a plate of sorts holding an animal. It could have been beef, but Michael was useless at identifying anything. It came with his good looks, sense of direction and writing skills. A voice in the back of his head was laughing uproariously.

"Tapuk." The man said, pointing at the meat and then imitated bunny ears.

'Rabbit.' Mike thought as he fought not to break out in laughter. He did not intend to be disrespectful to this man who had saved him. A small peal escaped his lips and he blushed, underneath the layers and layers of grime covering his face.

Strider laughed a deep rich laugh and Mike could not help but feel like a child. Here, this man who could have easily passed as his junior was doctoring him and the journalist felt like a child. He felt helpless and weak and struggled to come to terms that in a few weeks, he would be up and about as if nothing had happened, hampered by only his broken arm, which he cursed angrily in his mind. Strider saw the flicker of anger in his charge's eyes and sighed. He cut up the rabbit meat and left the fork so Mike's pride would not crash entirely to the ground as most men's prides did whenever they were forced to be spoon-fed. Strider himself was one of those that would swear off food until they could eat themselves.

Michael nodded his head. "Thank you."

Strider looked puzzled, but guessed by the tone that his patient was grateful. He smiled broadly and nodded. He could infer, just as Mike had, that this man was different. He was foreign in manner, speech and garb, but despite that, there was a ringing sense of the same courage Strider often witnessed amongst his rangers and in Mithrandir. Speaking of which, the wizard would be visiting soon to discuss their latest escapades regarding a certain slimy creature…

"Nin?" Mike struggled to pronounce the word after taking several bites of food as best he could with one hand.

Strider nodded and picked up the waterskin again, assisting the man in drinking. He dipped a cloth into a nearby bowl of water and athelas and encouraged Michael to lay back. He cleaned his patient's facial wounds and cleaned his face in doing so, and he could see the look of relief on the man's face. He grinned and continued to clean what wounds he could reach and that were unbound; he would rebind Michael's ribs later, after he and Halbarad had tended to the one called Day-veed.

Mike nodded again in thanks and Strider nodded. The man, however, pointed to Strider's bag and looked inquiringly for a word to identify with it.

"Laban." Strider clarified and nodded again before exiting the tent, heading towards the next tent, containing the darker skinned man.

David was awake when Strider entered and the dark man nodded, his eyes distrustful. Strider did not miss the look; he knew a soldier when he saw one and as such, David was looking out for danger to befall him. The elvish in his blood, small in amount as it was, told him it would be useful for the man along the path of his life. The "check-up" went smoothly, David only stiffening whenever Strider touched his wounds. He was otherwise silent and his eyes burned with a challenge, one that Strider felt no temptation to accept.

Halbarad met him on a ridge several meters from their camp and there the two men sat, each puffing on his pipe. Strider exhaled heavily, his eyes up in the stars. He traced Earendil finish his journey across the sky and dawn was approaching. Both men watched the sunrise with anticipation for the new day. Strider's mind was occupied and it showed as Halbarad smiled.

"What is your plan, Strider?" He asked softly, as to not disturb the rising day.

"We must continue to move, though My-kul and Day-veed are injured. It cannot be helped, and Lord Elrond would want to know of this. Times are growing darker, and I would not risk orcs attacking us while we are vulnerable." Strider answered pensively, his voice scarcely above a whisper and Halbarad strained to hear him.

"Aye." Halbarad agreed. "What do you think of them?" There was no reason in explaining who 'they' were.

"Strange." Strider replied. "I have seen many strange things, both humorous and horrifying. This surpasses them all. They cannot even speak a language I have heard snatches of and they are frightened, almost like children."

Halbarad nodded, having sensed the same thing.

"We should get back to camp." Strider said as they both stood up.

"Worry not, Strider, all will be revealed in time. Mithrandir shall visit soon, as you have said. Perhaps he can provide us with answers. But if he is stumped, we shall have good amusement for a time, so it all works out well for us either way." Halbarad quipped with a grin.

Strider relented and a small smile slipped over his lips.

"That's the spirit." The two Rangers walked back to the camp to see the men rising and breakfast being handed out in the form of cram. Strider swallowed and forced himself to look indifferent as he took his cram. There were some things he would never become accustomed to when it came to being a Ranger out in the wilderness for long months at a time.

"My lord, where are we heading?" A young Ranger asked as Strider passed.

"We shall be heading towards Rivendell. The two men we found are in dire need of his healing." Strider explained. "Now, come, Faelion, I am in need of your assistance."

"Really?" The young man's eyes widened. He was merely twenty-two years and surely the Chieftain would not need his help.

"Yes. I need you to bear Day-veed on your horse. He is not nearly as injured as My-kul, who will be riding with me." Strider put a hand on the man's shoulder. "Can I trust you with this? It is important that Day-veed heal. He and My-kul are friends, from what I can tell."

"Yes, my lord, I shall protect Day-veed and bear him well."

Strider smiled. "Thank you. That will be most helpful."

The Dunedain Chieftain let out a sigh as he turned to the morning and whispered a prayer to the Valar for Arwen. He longed to see her; it had been seven years since he had seen her, yet his love still burned for her. Every day he allowed himself the luxury of thinking of her, he fell head-over-heels in love with her again by simply recalling her soft words and her lovely smile and the way her blue-gray eyes watched him carefully as they spoke together. He was looking forward to seeing her again, if fate was kind to him.


	5. God Blessed the Broken Road

_I apologize for the long wait. This is simply an interlude, but I do hope you like it and we'll be back with Mike, David and the Rangers before Wednesday. I hope._

"What is this shape called?" Mrs. Smith asked her algebra class. It was Friday and hardly anyone was paying attention. They had started chapter ten in their books, which was graphing parabolas. "Miss Evans?"

Alexandria hadn't been paying attention and blinked as she came from her trance. "Umm… a curve?" She shrugged her shoulders as the school's resident nerd (AKA the boy beside her) chuckled.

"Jeff, do you know the answer?" Mrs. Smith turned her attention to the boy sitting next to Alex.

"Yes, it's a parabola. It crosses the x axis twice, therefore, if you factor its equation, using the quadratic formula, it will have two x's." Jeff answered easily, giving Alex a smirk.

Alex rolled her eyes and sighed. "Oh shut up, Jeff." She muttered. It was a dangerous thing to be caught talking in Mrs. Smith's math classes, so they whispered very quietly and very discreetly.

The class dragged on slowly and Alex could have jumped up and started to dance when the bell finally rang for the next class. She hated the class when it was at the end of the day and was thankful for their rotating schedule. She walked outside of the classroom, muttering to her friend, Natalie, about the absolute atrocity of it, but she was glad to report that they had no homework. For that night, at least.

Alex sat down at her desk in the front of her favorite class. She was in science. She loved learning about how the body worked and how one system complimented the others and how if they didn't have one or if one was messed up, they would all stop working and it'd be screwed up. She loved learning about different plants, and their science class was the best. They were currently making a nature trail in the swamp area behind the soccer fields and it was so much fun because they could screw off, while learning. But it was raining, so no trail-making.

She sighed and looked at the whiteboard, instead of Mr. Johnson. It was getting harder for her to pay attention. Everyone was always giving her looks of pity. When people actually came up to her and told her how sorry they were, that was comforting, but when they looked sadly at her, it made her feel worse. She was coming to terms with the fact her dad could die and how they were always talking about him on the news, but she didn't want to be faced with it all day. But going home was the worse. Scott was always there, since he was a stupid moocher and didn't have any incentive to get off his butt and get a job, and her mom sided with him, saying he was going through a tough time in his life. How tough could life get when you had an outlet for your anger, free food and board and someone to have sex with as much as you wanted?

Alex sighed and looked down at the worksheet that Mr. J handed out. Oh, good, just balancing chemical equations. It was easy stuff. She just asked Maria, the girl sitting beside her for help. She picked up her pencil to begin, but put it back down and sighed.

"Mr. J?" She walked up to where he sat at his desk. "Could I run to the restroom?"

"Sure, Alex." She gave him a grateful smile and walked out of the door.

Alex jogged down the hall to the bathroom and made sure that no one was in there. Classes were in session, so she was in luck. She walked into one of the stalls, and collapsed in tears. She had chosen the wheelchair one and sat on the floor. She hugged her knees close and let her tears fall.

"God…" She began, knowing nothing else to do. "I'm so scared. I don't want my Dad to die. I don't want him to spend one more minute in the hands of the enemy. Please! Protect him and deliver him… if it's your will. I love him so much, but if you're going to bring him home to you, then do so. I just don't know if I can handle it. I know you'd never give me more than I can handle, but I don't want him to go. It was hard enough when he and Mom split up, but for him to totally leave… then Mom would marry Scott." Alex rose to her knees and wiped her face.

She took a deep breath. "I'm trying to forgive him for breaking my iPod, but it's not the iPod itself. It's the fact it's a gift from Dad. He knows how much I love my dad and keeps trying to hurt me and I didn't do anything to him! And he's always trying to catch me sneaking out to go to church when I just want to know more about you. I'm trying to endure this but I don't know if I have the strength."

"I'm so angry, and it makes it worse knowing none of my friends would get it. Some of their parents are divorced, but I just miss my dad so much and I used to tell him everything. I don't know why you're doing this, but it better be for a good reason. Its my dad we're talking about."

Alex sighed and used her sleeve to wipe all of her remaining tears away. She got up on her feet and walked up to one of the sinks. She splashed water onto her face and tried to get all the redness of her eyes and nose and the tear stains from her cheeks. She sniffed and decided she looked terrible after crying. She cleared her throat and turned around, readying to back to class. She didn't know if she was ready emotionally, but she would have to. She did have to get her work done, even though she only felt marginally better.

She looked at the ceiling. "Protect my dad, God, please. He needs your help, and the other soldier he's with needs your help."


	6. Of Elves and Councils

Okay, I'm back, sorry about the long wait. Thanks to all my faithful reviewers and all those who had added me onto their favorites/alert list.

David looked up sharply when someone entered the tent he had been in for the past two days. He was on his guard, or as much as one could be while injured. It wasn't that he was ungrateful; he knew fully well he and Mike both would have died in the wilderness by themselves, it was simply that he didn't trust them. Who were these men who were quick to help two strangers who didn't even speak the same language? But, his conscience spoke up, why would they doctor their wounds if they were going to harm them? He looked over the facial features of the man who entered.

"Halbarad." David greeted him as Strider walked in. "Strider." He nodded.

"Day-veed." Strider acknowledged. He offered the man his hand and David tentatively took it, allowing himself to be anchored to his feet.

Halbarad was at the soldier's side, slinging David's arm over his shoulder and putting his left arm around his waist, providing sufficient for David's injured and malnourished muscles. Halbarad talked with Strider in the same strange language they always did and David focused all of his energy into schooling his emotions to show indifference and into taking the next step. His legs wobbled and threatened to give out, but he simply continued to walk as his vision swam. His legs finally decided he wasn't going to walk anymore and he began to collapse. Halbarad caught him before he did and with Strider's help, they steadied David so he could continue to walk.

"David." Strider pointed to a young man, only a few years younger than him. "Faelion."

David panted, nodding. He looked at the horse standing by Faelion and at Strider. There was nothing but a plain message in Strider's eyes and David had a sense that he was in the presence of greatness. He was a soldier and there was always something about the captains who merely decided what would be done and then did his part, instead of watching others die in his stead. Strider had that same presence. He looked at the horse and nodded, sweat pouring down his face from the exertion.

The three men then assisted him onto the horse. He adjusted himself as Faelion climbed up behind him. The young man gave him a reassuring smile and gently prodded the horse's sides with his ankles and they started towards the assembling Rangers on horseback. It was not their custom to travel on horses, but this journey from destroying Orcs near the Shire had demanded speed. David sat up as straight as he could, not feeling at all comfortable leaning back on a stranger's chest. Not only that, it was just weird. He was a man, and men didn't do that.

"Strider! Raza!" Someone shouted and David weakly tried to locate the emergency. He could see on the hill to the west that a horse was thundering down towards them.

"… Stranger?" David shrugged and yawned, his ribs moving painfully. He couldn't see very well in the bright sun because his eyes had been damaged in the beating he and Mike had received from the Iraqi.

"Michael!" He cried suddenly, looking around wildly. In the haze of the previous days, he hadn't had the energy to remember the journalist he had landed… wherever they were… with.

Strider appeared beside David and Faelion, a sleeping Michael in his arms and an old man beside him. The leader of the men made a sign that David should be quiet. He nodded and tentatively leaned back into Faelion's chest, his back and ribs aching terribly. He forced the need for sleep away and kept an eye on Michael. Though he was in no shape to, he would willingly fight off any danger from his friend. He did not want to be in this strange place alone.

"Razar." Faelion said, offering him a small red apple. David looked at it and memorized the word for later use. He took the proffered apple with a nod of thanks.

He bit into it slowly and gently. Eating anything was a pain for his upper left incisor and bottom front tooth and he knew, sadly, that it would remain so until he become accustomed to being without those two teeth. He continued eat as the old man and Strider continued to talk.

"Suzat… Bilba Labingi… Maura… Banizer… ribadyan..." Were the only words he caught as his mind started to cloud and he began to doze.

"David." Michael caught his attention and David sat up straight, looking at the rather battered journalist. "You look awful." He commented with a small grin.

"Thanks." David grinned, as best as he could with a healing gash on his left cheek. "You do too."

"How nice of you to notice." Mike drawled, a smile growing on his face. "You're alright?"

"I guess." David looked down at himself. "Do you know what they're saying?" He gestured at Strider and the old man.

Michael listened for a moment and looked thoughtful, "Well, something about Maura and Bilba… something happening on their birthday, in a place called 'Suzat'." He shrugged. "I'm getting better with the language, but I'm not fluent." He looked at their surroundings as Strider gave a command and all of the horses started forward. "Do you know what direction we're going in?"

David glanced at the sky, squinting from the sun, as it was still mid-morning. "South.. and slightly east." He reported.

The two men fell silent and thoughtful. David lost himself in a daydream of being at his home with his beautiful wife and his newborn daughter, whom he had yet to see, and Michael watched the scenery go by. It was a beautiful country they were in, and reminded him of the English country when he had visited it for a journalism assignment, but without the buildings and modernism. The country was raw, and the trees that grew there had probably been growing since the creation of the world. He could not turn his eyes away from the beautiful grasses that melded into forests.

And all the animals he saw! He saw more birds than he could remember spotting in his entire life. There was a myriad of calls from a shrill shriek that reminded him of a seagull to the charming chirp of a red-breasted robin. The roughness of nature did his emotions and mind good, and the fresh air seemed to carry extra strength to his limbs and he had more energy than he had for many, many days.

Mike wished for a pen and pad to write all that he saw. He wanted to express all of the beauty he saw in a medium he could carry with him and remember. It was a cheesy thought, he recognized, but one that he truly felt. There was something in the air that opened his mind to beauty he, and the rest of his generation, had been denied by previous generations. He could actually see deer and their fawns leap gracefully away at the sound of the many horses and men, a sight he hadn't seen from living in Albany, New York for his entire life.

His eyes grew wide at the sound of a raging river. It was clear, a call to nature and to his heart. He had no idea of the name of the river, or of even where they were, but that was simply a detail to his heart.

"My-kul?" The old man caught his attention and Mike looked up.

_You are new to this world._

"Ah!" Mike cried out, looking around for the source of the sound. Voices did not usually suddenly enter his mind and it frightened. It also made him suspect his own madness.

_Do not be frightened, Michael. I am Gandalf, or Mithrandir as the elves call me. I commend you on your resilience so far._

_Uh… thanks?_ Mike thought tentatively, not sure how to cope with this voice in his head. He looked at the old man and saw a grandfatherly twinkle in his eyes and he sighed in relief before looking shocked. It was not a normal gift, being able to talk in someone else's head.

_I am surprised that you were able to pick up the common speech so easily. Both Strider and I shall help you and David until you are able to speak fluently._

_Thank you very much. I was worried._ With every word, Michael became more at ease with the voice in his head. He assumed that Mithrandir was the one behind it, or he was really in danger of being insane. Oh well. At least he was in a beautiful place in his own mind, if he was truly insane. But again, if he was insane, he wouldn't be feeling pain and he was definitely feeling pain at the moment.

Mike looked at David who suddenly looked shocked. The journalist grinned and David let out a sigh, obviously relieved he wasn't the only one. "So… I wonder who this Gandalf is that he can speak in our thoughts."

"Yeah…" David trailed off, engaged in a conversation in his head as well, so Mike decided to leave him and Gandalf to it.

Mike wasn't entirely comfortable anymore. He took a deep, calming, soothing breath and decided to think about everything logically. He and David were in a completely different world, thanks for some sort of rip between two words (or a different universe), and this world wasn't nearly as modern as their previous one. The men rode on horses, slept in tents, had swords, daggers and bows, ate wild game and spoke in a different language which he knew bits and pieces of. They were on horses to some unknown destination with men proven to be genuinely helpful, though they seemed to be of a different species. Michael himself was nearly six feet, brown hair and eyes, and almost unable to 'grow' calf muscles. The men he and David were now in the company of were close to seven feet, with muscles rock-solid. They seemed to be a rough, rogue band of soldiers who Michael was growing to respect.

With all this knowledge in the fore part of his brain, he was still unable to come to a conclusion as to why they were there, how did they come to be there, and how were they going to get home. Mike thought this place was beautiful, but it lacked something and he knew exactly what it was missing. It was missing Alex.

Mike felt all the moisture leave his mouth as he thought about his daughter. She seemed like a passing dream; her laughter ringing through his mind, her characteristic grin flashing every which way, and her goofy antics always present in his mind. He didn't know if she was safe, and it made him want to rip his hair out. He wanted to find her, gather her in his arms and kiss her hair, making sure she was well and safe. A tear sprang into his eye as he imagined walking through the door of his apartment and finding her lounging on the couch, watching cartoons on a Saturday morning, a plate of strawberries and pancakes in her lap and the aftermath of her cooking experience all over his kitchenette.

They came to the river Michael had heard from a long way off and crossed in the shallowest place. He looked down at the water and it was sparkling clear. His mouth ached for the sweet water the river seemed to promise, but he kept his mouth shut. The company of soldiers couldn't stop simply because he was thirsty. He leaned against Strider, his ribs crying out for a rest.

He dozed off as they traveled through trees until he heard something. It was a sweet melody, finer than any he had heard before. Time seemed to pause as the song washed over him. He didn't know what the song was about, but there were no words to describe it. It was beautiful, it was enchanting, but those words seemed empty as description for the song. The song seemed to come from the trees themselves and seeing as how Gandalf could speak into his head, he didn't doubt for a moment it could very well be coming from the trees.

Michael's eyes widened to a comical size as a building seemed to grow out of the trees. It was apart from the trees, yet so much more dazzling and astonishing. It was no feat of men, he knew. The hands of men were too clumsy to fashion such a structure. He felt strange emotions wash over him; unworthiness, ugliness, shameful… as if he was unfit to be near this place.

"Imladris." Strider whispered in his ear as he dismounted and assisted Mike in doing the same. "Glorfindel." Strider nodded his head before greeting the blonde man by what seemed to be a traditional warrior's greeting- the clasping of the other's forearm. He bowed to the other man, more intimidating than this Glorfindel. Michael could not catch what Strider greeted this other man as.

He leaned against the horse as Halbarad came up beside him and assisted him in walking inside the structure. Michael's awe did not lessen as he and David, helped by Faelion, were escorted into 'Imladris' and to a room with beds and shelves of different leaves and potions. It was an infirmary and a strange man walked out, having finished with whatever work he was doing and the movement of turning caused his hair to move from his ear.

Michael blinked and stared. "A stunning new development, if you ask me."

David nodded, staring with the same awe-struck expression on his face as Michael. "Indeed."

Halbarad turned his head to watch the elf leave. He looked at his two charges and, realizing what had shocked them, glanced at Faelion. The two men began to laugh in amusement and nodded to the two injured men and walked out.

"Halbarad, I will see to my horse." Faelion bowed slightly to his superior and left in the direction of the stables.

Strider appeared at Halbarad's side, followed by Glorfindel and Lord Elrond. "My lords." Halbarad bowed to the two elves. "Do you have need of me?"

"Yes, we do, Halbarad. Come with us, we have much to talk about."

Halbarad and Strider followed the elves to Elrond's study where they were all seated; Elrond in the chair behind the mahogany desk, Glorfindel standing, and Strider and Halbarad in the chairs there for personal meetings with the lord of Imlardis. Mithrandir joined them a moment later, leaning heavily on his wooden staff. The room was quiet as Lord Elrond seemed to be gathering his thoughts.

"Who are these men?" He asked simply.

Strider stroked his growing stubble. "Their names are Day-veed and My-kul. Gandalf and I assume they are not of this world and perhaps brought here by Sauron to confuse us in this time of peril, or even by the Valar to help us, though I doubt they will be… more of a hindrance than a help." He chose his words carefully.

"Indeed. I do not think them evil. They were helpless when they first came to the Rangers' care." Mithrandir interjected.

"Yes, when another Ranger and I found them, they were shivering, frightfully injured and frightened. They were unconscious when we arrived with them back to camp." Halbarad said.

Elrond nodded. "This strikes me as odd. If they were from a different world, why would they be here? What purpose could they possibly serve, for they have no knowledge of our history, of the war, of the peril of being alive in this time." The elven lord let out a small sigh. "Do they even know our language?"

"They are learning." Strider answered. "My-kul is more fluent than Day-veed, though both hardly speak to us at all. We merely communicate through hand signs. They talk to each other in their own language."

Elrond stood up, beginning to pace. "Are the healers caring for them now?" His brows were furrowed as he battled to piece together this mystery.

"Yes, Faelion and I left them there, moments ago." Halbarad answered.

"I will meet them myself and we will decide what to do with them then." He looked at them. "I must speak with Gandalf alone." The others obediently filed out and Gandalf sat down, the weight of his great age suddenly on his shoulders.

"I have spoken to them." Gandalf said. "In their minds, there is no evil. They come from a time of war, in the middle of the war themselves. Day-veed is a soldier, and My-kul kept accounts of the soldiers' well-being and the happenings of the war."

"Perhaps they were brought here for relief of their own war." Elrond shook his head. "But that makes no sense."

"Perhaps they were brought here to aid us. Day-veed could fight, if it came down to that, and this war must be remembered. We cannot let another cause such great evil."


	7. In the Infirmary

_Sorry about the loooooong wait. I've been caught up in Simply Glorfindel and A Few Minutes._

Michael was propped up against the headboard, his head against the intricate metal monstrosity. Minutes before, two young ladies had entered and begun to work. They had taken out leaves of different sizes and shapes and ground them into a fine powder, adding water and other liquids to make poultices and then took off the bandages from their wounds. Now, Michael was never one to be lustful or overly obvious about being attracted to a woman, but oh dear Lord. These women were more beautiful than any he had seen before. They weren't sexy or hot, and he felt terrible for putting those words in a thought with the two ladies that were milling about the room. 'Sexy' and 'hot' were too coarse to describe them. They were beautiful, with dark hair and the lady that was fixing David up had blue eyes and the one helping him had the most beautiful brown eyes he had ever seen. Except on his daughter, of course.

They were speaking in a different language than the men Michael and David had been with before. The language the two ladies spoke was more delicate and light and seemed to flow over the tongue more smoothly. Michael listened eagerly, watching their bodies earnestly so that he might identify objects with those beautiful words.

"Mike, I think we may be in heaven." David commented as one of the beauties began to tend to the wound on his face.

"Don't you have a wife?" Mike asked with a raised eyebrow. "Feeling-cheater." He accused with a grin.

David shrugged. "Yes, I do, and I love her very much and I think she's more beautiful than any other woman." He declared. "But these girls are second-best and second-best isn't that bad." He commented delicately, glancing at Mike innocently.

"Oh, don't give me that." Mike rolled his eyes, highly amused.

"My-kul?" The brown-eyed lady asked David.

The Hispanic shook his head. "David." He pointed to himself.

The ladies nodded and began to wrap their many wounds. Michael groaned as a bandage was placed on the long wound on his thigh. His _favorite _knee-length tan shorts had been cut away and he was still smarting from that blow. The entire change of worlds/dimensions/universes was starting to get to him and he was clinging to everything that reminded him of where he came from. He didn't even know where he was, he couldn't communicate with anyone, not to the extent that would keep him sane, and he was terribly injured. He was restless, though he would be forever awed by the world, whatever world it was, he was in now. He swallowed the lump in his throat as he remembered his apartment, his computer with the novel he was writing on it, his pile of laundry on the couch and the mail he needed to go through on the table. He missed the normality, the routine of his life.

Of course, he had made the choice to change all of it. When he had been asked to be a potential wartime journalist, he hadn't skipped a beat before saying yes. What a way to serve his country. He didn't regret the choice, but his body was regretting it. He was covered in blood, sweat, grime, and bruises. His hormones loved that he was being tended to by a beautiful woman (who wasn't exactly a woman, of course), but he wanted to go home. Since Gandalf could speak into minds, perhaps he could help them back to their time. Except they had to be in a different dimension or something, because he was a history nut. He hadn't heard of anyone called Gandalf in his several years of randomly searching the histories of countries.

Michael sighed and leaned against the fluffy pillow he had been provided with. The two ladies inclined their heads as they left a light meal for them to eat and then left. Mike turned to David.

"You think we'll get home?" He asked, reaching for a slice of bread. He took a bite out of it, wiping the crumbs from his bloodied and ripped shirt.

"I don't know, Mike." David said, taking a bunch of grapes. "But whether there is hope to get back or not, we have to assume the worst and march on."

Mike wanted to snap something in reply, but he realized, despite his childish want to say there was always hope, there may be no way to get back. He might never see his daughter again. He might never slouch on his couch to watch some cheesy made-for-TV movie again. He gulped and blinked.

"You're right." He glanced at David. "I hate it when you're right." He let out a sigh, and then realized he sighed. A lot.

David grinned. "Well, what can I say?" He shrugged, before wincing. "Ugh." He muttered, having just jarred one of his severely bruised ribs.

David looked down at his attire. His once pristinely cleaned and well cared for United States Army uniform was ripped, bloody and in pieces. The pant legs had been cut away so Strider and Halbarad could tend to his leg wounds and the rest was drenched in his own blood and the grime from living in a tent for many days. He wrinkled his nose, glancing at Mike, who was in the same state as himself.

"We could really use a shower, you know?" David commented dryly.

Mike looked up and grinned, laughing. "I suppose. And I wouldn't be against deodorant or a shave, either." He never was one of those fruity guys who always cared about his looks, but he was in dire need of a shower or a bath or a swim in a lake or something. Anything to get the dried blood out of his mop of hair.

"This place is… amazing." David said, looking around. "And these people, those women… they aren't normal people either. They're way better looking, to start, and their ears are pointed. What do you think they are? Just humans with heightened genes?"

"I don't know." Mike shrugged. "Probably. But really good genes." He said, thinking about the two women who had bound their wounds. "I'm so glad I'm not married." He joked.

"Yeah, because you could so get one of them." David replied sarcastically. "They're out of your league. And how are you going to try to 'lay on the charm'? Just grab one and kiss them? If they had heightened genes, even those girls could take you."

Mike rolled his eyes. "Yeah, because if you didn't have a wife, you could get one."

"Of course. Because I know a romance language." David stuck his tongue out, tasting his lips. "Water!" He squeaked. In a manly way, of course. He had just realized his lips were covered in dried blood and dirt, and the combination didn't tickle his fancy. He chugged the water quickly before putting the cup down thoughtfully. "The water tastes weird." He said, his eyebrows furrowed.

Mike reached for his cup and took a sip, nodding. "It does. It tastes lighter, I guess."

"Well, everything else in this world is a little messed up."

The journalist nodded. "True." He agreed with a yawn. "Aw, crap." He reached a finger to the gash on his chin and felt blood trickling down his neck. "So… where do you think Strider and Halbarad are?"

"… Making out with beautiful women?"

What Mike didn't know that he was only half-right. It was Strider who was kissing the beautiful woman.


	8. Sauron or Eru?

_Again, my apologies on the wait. A lot's been going on._

Mike watched the sun set through the open balcony. He heard singing in the distance and let out a sigh. His heart was quiet and no evil thoughts seemed to flit through his mind. It could have been said he was at peace. The beauty of the land enchanted him and put him under a welcome spell, one that soothed away his fears, if only for the moment. He pushed himself into a sitting position and watched David sleep.

His smile was slight, but his gratitude was shining in his eyes. That Hispanic was the reason he was still alive and he came once again to the realization he had come to the moment he had agreed to going to Iraq. That was what America was about. Relentlessly saving a friend without needing thanks. That was what they had all been fighting for. That was the ideal that forced his hand to write, that sprung words to his tongue to defend his country in the only way he knew.

Michael ran a hand through his damp hair. It felt so good to get out of bed and bathe. All of the dirt and dried blood had floated from his tanned skin and with a good wash with the rough soap of the elves, he felt as good as new. After his bath, two slips on the slick rock later, he was back in bed and very grumpy about it. He smiled at his own behavior; he was still coming to accept this world and he couldn't help his own childish behavior. He was reminded strongly of Alex when she had been seven or eight years old. She had gotten the flu and had stayed at his place for two weeks. He made a face and laughed. He had given her his bed. That had been a painful and tiring two weeks on the couch, but a lump formed in his throat.

_Michael laughed as eight-year-old Alex bounced around his apartment. Normally, he would have been slightly annoyed for he had an article due within the next three days, but his daughter had been confined to bed for the last two weeks and she was finally feeling better. She jumped up and down onto the couch._

"_Alex, don't break the couch." He told her, looking up from his laptop._

"_Oh, Daddy, I won't! I'm little!" She replied happily._

_Mike left his work on the table and walked over to her, catching her into his arms. "But one day you will get bigger and then you will!" He teased her, holding her easily. "Someday you'll be a big girl and then there will be boys who will want to date you, but I'll have to beat them up." He grinned at her._

_Alex poked his nose. "Well, I don't want any boys to date. You're the only boy I want in my life. I love you Daddy, and I don't want Mommy to marry another boy because you're my only daddy." She wrapped her arms around his neck and held on._

_Mike smiled against her pigtails. "I love you too Alex." He whispered, sitting down onto the couch and cuddling his daughter in his lap._

Mike cleared his throat, blinking the tears from his eyes. No. He had to keep hope. He would find a way back to her. No matter if he had to face God himself, he would return to his daughter and beat that loser his ex-wife was dating into a bloody pulp. He felt a bubble of anger in his blood, but he calmed himself. It would do no one good to get angry and become bitter. Alex would survive as she always did. He admired his little girl so much for holding everything together through the hard, long divorce. He sighed, thinking back six years to when he and Julia had decided to separate.

God! He could remember those long sleepless nights, the anger, the severe depression, and then the simple acceptance he would become a single man. Even at eight years old, Alex understood. She knew it wasn't her fault and that her parents loved her very much, even if they didn't decide to show it, but as she grew up into her preteen years and the divorce was, at last, made final, she became shaky and depressed. Mike had worried so much for her, until she found Jesus and then things slowly got better.

Mike missed his daughter above all else. In his 'old age', as he would always joke around, she was all he had to look forward to. He did love his job, but he loved her more. He missed having her around at his apartment; he missed hearing her talk about how terrible Robyn was being, and how creepy Chris was being. He missed her quirky personality and having to help her with her algebra homework. He realized he missed Alex and he missed being a father. He missed having someone to depend on him. He knew it was wrong to draw strength from his daughter because it would be detrimental to her emotional health, but he was trying to change.

The door opened and broke Mike from his thoughts. He looked up to see a dark-haired elf walk into the room. Like the rest of the elves he had come into contact with (he still couldn't get used to the trance that seemed to come over him!), Mike found him a closed book. Not that Mike had a talent for reading minds (though sometimes he thought that would be pretty cool), with other people, if you paid enough attention, you could pull out their emotions from strange habits. For instance, if someone was nervous, they usually had a habit; looking at the floor, biting their nails, crossing and uncrossing their legs. But the elf was simply there. He radiated calm and Mike's fear and apprehension melted away with a single friendly smile from the elf.

"Elrond." He said simply. "My-kul." He pointed to Mike, who nodded.

_It is a pleasure to finally have the chance to meet you, Michael._

Mike jumped, aggravating one of his wounds. _No, the pleasure is all mine, my lord._ He replied as a thought, seeing the elf smile slightly at his formality.

_Would you mind telling me what you remember?_

Mike watched Elrond with distrust. He didn't want to say anything. Though elves appeared to the journalist as kind, calm beings with hearts to do good, he didn't know where the heck he was. No matter how calm these strange elves were, Mike did not feel comfortable. He believed Strider knew, to an extent, and Gandalf knew everything from probing in his mind with his permission, but there was a strange feeling in his heart. Who was he to say if Elrond would… Mike sighed and blinked.

_Alright. I am not comfortable with this._ He reminded the elf-lord, looking down at his folded hands.

_Go on, Michael. None will know of your past._

Michael was stunned. He suddenly didn't understand. His existence, along with David's, seemed pointless. This place was engaged in a war, and he did not understand how him being there would change things or aid the war. He sighed and played with the leather bracelet Alex had given him for his birthday.

_There is a war in our world, or time, as well. We were in a desert place; David was fighting, I was keeping records of it. The enemy came and attacked our camp and the last thing I remember was fire and shards of rock everywhere. Then David and I woke up in a prison. We were then beaten, increasing our wounds, and then something silver appeared on the wall and it sucked us in… no matter how strange that sounds._

Mike watched Elrond's face, and he did not look troubled. The elf nodded slowly, his fingers rubbing his jaw as he thought. Mike took this opportunity to observe the lord's clothing. He was wearing great robes of dark blue. They were unadorned save for an elaborate symbol on the right side of his breast. Underneath the robe, he wore a fine white shirt and dark blue trousers. He wore fine black boots and a ring on his right hand, but Elrond's hands were clasped in his lap.

_It is as I feared, Michael. I cannot be certain, but the workings of the evil one are still very much alive today. I do not know why he brought you here, nor what purpose you serve here, but our Enemy is at work here. Either the Enemy or Eru._

Michael raised an eyebrow. _I do not understand._

Elrond nodded. _The Enemy has been using all means to get our attention from the battlefront. If this is the Enemy's doing, then you are to be a distraction._

_And if it is Eru's workings?_ Mike could only assume Eru was God.

_Then you shall aid us. Perhaps David shall fight, and you shall keep detailed records of this time in the fashions of your people. Maybe it is our experience in your own war that will help us. I am Wise, but even I cannot see all ends._


	9. Not Another Average Day

**I'm sorry it's taken SO long. I lost my muse for a long time, but I'm going to attempt a chapter. It may not be up to par, but I will do my best.**

**Summary: Mike Evans, an Iraq journalist, and a soldier get sucked into Middle Earth when they were close to death in Abu Ghraib. Now they have to find a way to cope, because there's no way home.**

_Excerpt from Michael Evans' journal, kept during his stay in Imladris._

The date, as I can best recall, is July 23rd. Back home, it is hot, sunny and everyone goes swimming on Saturdays. Alex is probably busy doing her homework, cursing math underneath her breath. Julia, as is her custom, is doing a full cleaning of the house and she's probably vacuuming around Alex's legs. Scott, the unsavory character, is probably lazing about, not helping at all. Granted, I was hardly better, but I need something to slam him with.

To be honest, I am despairing. I want to go home and see my baby girl, or at least see the war finished off. I don't even know if I'm alive, and that frightens me. I don't know if I've left my child behind. I think I may be going crazy. This can't be possibly. I'm in some other place, I can barely communicate in full-sentences, and I'm miserable for want of a shower, shave with a real razor, and my books. This place is full of beauty, I'd be the first to admit it, but, to be very clichéd, there's no place like home. I miss my cramped apartment (God, never thought I'd say that). I miss home. I miss Alex and taking her places and spending time with her. I love that girl so much, and now I don't know if I'll ever see her again.

But everything in perspective, I am well. My arm is on the mend, and my ribs hardly bother me anymore. David and I have been given small houses ('shacks' is the better word) and been employed by some local human farmers. We get a few coins a week to spend on luxuries, for our food is given to us as return for our hard work, and since we live near the local bar/inn, free drinks all 'round is all I can say. I am glad Elrond has been so generous in providing us with this chance. We have spoken a few times and he says that it's unlikely that we will ever return to our homes for we don't even know how we got here. At least he was truthful. But I feel worse for David. I am divorced. He is a young husband and a young father. He never got to meet his baby girl. All he knows is her name: Heather Wilma. I do not understand our situation, but I retain hope.

Alex would always tell me in her letters that God was in control, that he had a plan. I find it hard to believe that, but at the same time, is it so hard to believe?

†††

Mike sighed as he heaved himself up from the rough pallet he slept upon, giving David a gentle shove on the side with his foot. He had heard a terrible rooster's crow and knew it was time to get up. David, however, slept like a log and took several minutes to get up, now that there was no war going on around him that he was a soldier in. Mike, as David grumbled and sat up, changed into his workshirt which was grimy and dirty, but at least it was something that was flexible and cool when it was hot and warm when it was cold outside.

"Damn roosters…" David muttered angrily underneath his breath as he changed as well. "Ready for another day, amigo?"

"I suppose." Mike yawned. But the truth was that he wasn't ready for another day. They had only been working for a week, and his arms and legs were about ready to commit mutiny and kill him themselves. His muscles ached as he attempted to move, his joints threatened to give way from all the hard work and the extra weight he was carrying around. Mike Evans had never been an overweight kind of guy, but he was far from fit. And he needed to be fit to survive in this world.

David, on the other hand, was at the peak of his physical ability. Boot camp and being in open combat had done his body wonders. Every muscle was well defined, and his skin was wrapped tautly around his body. There was hardly an ounce of fat on his body, and it seemed that he was made for this harshness. Mike was not above envying him. And people thought women envied each other's bodies.

Mike was full of envy for all of the people in this strange new place. They were all built for the hard work they were doing, and he was struggling just to keep up with the work he was given because of his arm. David seemed to fit right in, able to communicate with more ease than Michael now that they had help, and it seemed this new language had something in common with David's native Spanish. Mike was struggling over the way to phrase his sentences, and the pronunciations of certain words. He sighed, trying his best not to allow himself to go down that road of inferiority. He'd been going down that road since he and Julia had divorced, plagued with ideas of how it was his fault, of what he could have possibly done to drive her away. He knew the truth remained that she hadn't loved him for a long time, but had kept him so she could pursue extra-martial affairs. But he could never hate her. He still loved her, with the awfully pathetic love of a jilted lover.

Banishing those thoughts away, he settled into his daily tasks, which he found difficult, but cathartic. They took his mind away from the fact he was far from home, with only one friend, and didn't know the language and who to and not to trust. He carried smaller baskets of vegetables from the large gardens the inn kept, he fixed any broken baskets, sharpened the strange curvy things people used for wheat (he had never found out the name of those things), and did various other little tasks. Though he was loath to admit it, he almost missed his old desk job that he'd had before he'd gone off for the whole writing deal.

"Working hard, Mike, or hardly working?" David called over from the fields.

Mike grinned. "I'd say the same to you, chump. Don't make me come over there and see how the army trains its recruits." He shouted back.

"Oh, I'd love to see you try!" David made a fake-threatening move, before laughing and turning back to his work.

Mike laughed briefly, but fell back into his thoughts as he was given several scythes to sharpen. He sat against the inn wall and pulled the whetstone from his pocket.

Hours later, Mike and David stumbled back into their shack after a round of drinks with 'the boys'. David immediately slumped down onto his pallet, groaning in happiness for a moment of rest. Mike could tell the younger man was exhausted, both physically and emotionally. This was hard on both of them. The American sighed and sat down, switching his shirts. He was going to need to ask one of the pretty girls who worked at the inn to help him with his clothes sometime soon. He smelled of sweat and animal dung. Yes, the inn had a stable. Another one of his duties.

"Mike?" David turned his head on the pallet to look at his friend.

"Yeah, man?" Mike asked, groaning as his back relaxed on the pallet. He missed his king-sized mattress with his pillow that smelled like spring and comforter that was so warm.

"Are we ever going to get out of here? I just want to see my daughter." His voice was soft, but seemed to scream of his pain and agony. A father who had never seen his child. A husband longing for his wife's embrace. All of these things, in a story, a character might understand how to comfort someone else about. Mike, however, was just a simple guy.

"No, I don't think we will." Mike sighed, admitting defeat. There was no way home. "We're stuck here, David."

The Hispanic nodded, suddenly numb. "Okay."

"I'm sorry." Mike offered pathetically.

"Me too."

For the first time in a long time, Michael Evans wanted to simply break down and cry as David turned onto his other side and fell asleep. This just wasn't fair. It wasn't fair, and it couldn't be fair. Why them? Why David? Why now? Why? Why? Why? And for the first time in a long time, Mike turned away from David and let a few tears fall. He cried silently for David, who would never know the joy of parenting, and for himself, who would never see his beloved daughter again, and for Alex, who was stuck without her dad to protect her. He wanted to believe there was more, but he didn't have Alex's optimism and simple belief that it was possible that things could get better. In all of his experience so far in this world led him to believe the contrary. Life was simply cruel.

†††

Elrond paced in his study, a cup of tea in his hand. Aragorn leaned against the wall further off, and Glorfindel and Erestor sat next to each other by the large bookshelf. No words were spoken, and they left each other to their thoughts. They had gathered together that day to discuss what would be done for My-kul and Day-veed. It was not that there was any suspicion as to their loyalties, or that they might do something that would raise suspicion. The only reports they'd heard from one of Aragorn's men who randomly went to the small town to check up on the two men were ones of great praise. My-kul and Day-veed were hard workers, accomplished more than five men could, and they were healing.

"This vexes me." Glorfindel finally said aloud. "I do not like being in such suspense. I believe Eru has a hand in this, but the purpose escapes me. Sauron's eye is focused on the Ring; he has no care for two strangers. What could they possibly do to help or hinder us?" He ran a hand through his golden hair. His handsome features were marred by irritation and confusion.

"I find myself agreeing with you, Glorfindel." Erestor nodded his dark head to his good friend. "Or this could be a ploy of Sauron's to simply distract us."

"Estel?" Elrond slipped back into comfortable paternal familiarity with his son. "What do you think?"

The hardened Ranger sighed, lifting his gaze from the floor. "I know not. I have sensed nothing, and you would have known before I. Their language is not simply babble, there is a pattern to it, but I have no way of figuring out what they're saying. They have been watched by common people, people who would see if there was something common about them. They are aliens in this land, and I believe them to be harmless."

Elrond smiled at his foster son's words. "I agree, yet I think there may be a purpose beyond distraction. But come, lunch is being served."

†††

Alex was on her bed, tears sliding down her cheeks as she attempted to write another letter to her father. Everything had been building up over the last few months, and she had no hope left. There had been no news of her father for months, and everything had calmed down, but the storm in her heart was only worse.

In truth, she had tried her best to just cope. She'd had some alcohol, and her boyfriend, Dirk, had tried to get her to sleep with him. She'd almost said yes, but she hadn't. But she really wanted to now. But Dirk had broken up with her for some prissy hussy named Lindsey who went to another school. Now, she was just alone. Alone, and unloved, and forgotten by her own mother. Yeah, her mother was too focused on Scott to focus on her. She just wanted her mother back.

_Dear Dad,_

_Things have been going so wrong, and I'm sorry. I drank some alcohol at a party. But it tasted nasty, so I'll never do it again. I'm so sorry. I just can't think of why. I've been going in such the wrong direction, and I miss you. I'm so worried for you. You have to be okay. Yeah, you have to. I don't know why I'm worried. You'll be fine, and then you'll come back and save me from Mom and Scott. They're engaged, by the way. But Scott doesn't love Mom, I know it. My mom loves Scott though, or at least thinks she does. But all they do is fight, fight, fight, all the time. I think she's just trying to get over you. I want to believe that. _

_But Daddy, I'm so alone. You always know how to make me feel better, and you're fun to hang with. Dirk, my boyfriend, broke up with me because I wouldn't sleep with him, and I thought he loved me, or at least cared about me. No one cares about me. No one. God definitely doesn't. I know I told you all the time that God is in control and there's a reason for everything, but there's no reason for you to be missing. There's no reason for anything like that. I miss you so much. I want you home. _

_But someone did send me a letter today. There was no name, and no name on the return address. But it was a letter. All it said was, "Be strong." Strangely enough, I was so comforted by that. I'll try to be stronger, Dad, but it's so hard._

_Alex._

Alex wiped her tears away and walked down the stairs to the kitchen. She was famished from not doing her homework and from the stress that quarter grades were coming up and she was sure she was failing in everything, when she normally did so well. Scott was in the kitchen, and she turned to leave.

"Hey, Alex." Scott called after her.

"Yeah?" She spat, harsher than she had intended.

He held his hands up, as if in surrender. "Hey. Look kid, I'm sorry I've been a real bastard lately. I've got my own problems, and… it's just weird. And I want to make a deal with you."

"What kind of deal?" Alex asked, in shock from Scott's admission.

"I'm going to back off for a bit, and I'm moving out. Your mom and I want to have time apart before we start planning the wedding, just to make sure it's what we want. I made a deal with your mom too. She and I will spend five hours a week together, which would equate to about two dates. And she will spend fifteen hours with you. Doing whatever you girls do. Deal?" Scott, with a genuine smile on his face, offered her his hand.

"Deal." Alex returned his smile tentatively.

"Oh, and I'm really sorry about the iPod and the anger thing. That's why your mom and I are taking some time off. I realized that I was screwed up and I needed help before I became her husband and your stepdad."

Alex eyed his suspiciously. She wanted to believe him, that he was telling the truth. She analyzed him with the logical mind she'd inherited from her father. He didn't stand with the same arrogance and pride anymore, and he looked like he'd spent the whole night up, thinking. He looked more humble, and he had an air of humility about him. She decided she'd give him a second chance.

"Oh, thanks." She shrugged. "I don't forgive you, but okay."

"Thanks." Scott turned and then headed back upstairs to the office and left her alone.

Alex sighed, slumping against the kitchen wall. This was just too crazy. But maybe she was wrong about him. Maybe.


	10. In this weak and idle theme

**Woo! I'm on a super roll. Here's yet another chapter. Now, these chapters may feel way off from the ones I've posted beforehand, but that's because of the huge time gap. I've picked up on a couple of new tricks and writing things, so my writing's going to be different. By the way, I love reviews. Just a tidbit of information.**

Waking up anywhere is a bad thing, especially when the sun's in your eyes and you feel like you could sleep for two more days and still not feel more rested. Waking up to a grumpy Hispanic is even worse. But the worst of all situations to be waking up in is when there are seemingly mythical, nightmarish creatures setting fire to the town you live in, that grumpy Hispanic is quickly gearing up for war, and you honestly happen to want to stay in your shack, where you most likely will be killed or the shack will be burned and you with it. And that was why Michael Evans hated to wake up on that particular day.

David was gone without as much as a, "By your leave," but Mike attributed it to his military instincts. The pasty-skinned, coffee-addicted American whose eyes were still bleary with sleep tried his best to examine his situation. Broken arm, no David to have his back, absolutely terrified, enemies at least two times bigger than he was… the odds weren't exactly screaming that he was going to live if he left. Funnily enough, that was exactly what he did. He adjusted his sling, and shoved his military-grade boots on (the only things that were salvaged from his previous outfit) on. In his left hand, he grabbed a scythe he had been sharpening the night before and threw the door open.

His eyes were met with only horror, and his vision swam. Horrific creatures were ravaging the town, and bodies of men and the creatures littered the once neat and orderly lanes. Mike nearly vomited when he saw the body of a child no more than twenty feet from him. He was frozen in fear. The sky was brightly illuminated, and it was a fine day. Birds should have been chirping, and children should have been running around as the men worked in the fields and the women did all of the other tasks. Instead, death touched this place. Mike had seen death before. He had seen a soldier fall by a stray bullet. He'd seen what it looked like when a car bomb exploded near five young men in the prime of their life. But never had he seen such butchery. He was assaulted with his most primal instinct: fight or flight? He ran for his life.

In his flight, he did manage to keep his head enough hear a child's cries. Michael looked over his shoulder. He was nearly at the outskirts of the town, if he continued running, he could get to the woods and be safe. From what he'd learned so far, he could probably live for a few days, and then return when the carnage had been cleaned up. A quick memory of his daughter, like a photograph, flashed through his head: Alex had been six years old, and she had broken her leg, falling from a tree. A complete stranger had picked her up and carried her all the way home. He remembered that flash of gratitude as he invited the young man in for coffee. He remembered what it was like to be reminded that there were good people out in the world. He turned on his heel, shot like a bullet into the house and rescued a small girl from the flames that were beginning to consume her home.

She wailed and sobbed, but Mike just continued to run. He could hear the frenzied yells as the enemies realized several people were getting away, and he was spurned on by the idea of being pursued. He ran, for his life actually did depend on it, and ignored as best he could the iron fist that gripped his lungs. It wasn't just about him anymore, it was about this child he carried in his arms. His heart broke; the poor thing was still crying. He held her closer and slowed his pace to a jog. It was then that he made the terrible discovery that he was lost.

"Oh, God." He muttered underneath his breath. He picked his pace up, and decided that being lost was better than being back in that town.

††† Several hours later †††

Little did Mike know that Elladan and Elrohir, along with twenty of Imladris' best, led by Glorfindel, were already riding towards the town.

All Mike knew at that point was he was exhausted. The little girl he had rescued had fallen asleep. He didn't know how she could have; his running was not the smoothest. Perhaps she had cried herself to sleep. His stomach grumbled, demanding food, as he found a fallen log that would make a shelter. Unfortunately, his survival techniques were limited to the three episodes of Man VS Wild he had seen. He found as many long sticks he could to lean against the fallen log, and then adorned it with pine boughs, in case it rained. Inside, he pushed dry pine needles and dead leaves and moss and laid the tiny, fragile child inside.

Laying across the opening of the shelter, without a thought to his own safety, he merely fell asleep and hoped no one found him.

Little did he know that he was being watched.


End file.
